A metaphor
Such a beautiful glass, cut crystal, prisms the light, elegant in the hand, soft on the lips. The sun dances through its stem and rainbows leap across the table. It will break, eventually. It will fall from the table, or slip from condensation-slickened fingers. Our time together will be over. Because it will break, it is more beautiful, while it is unbroken still.
Every moment of drinking from it, is like a flower in bloom, a golden moment of pause. That is beauty.
When it breaks, the sun upon its shattered remains shall be beautiful. That is beauty.
When I sweep it up, it shall tinkle and clink, jagged and glass spearful. Like a precious poignant memory.
And the beauty of sweeping it up, an act I will do 1000 more times, in that exact spot, when 1000 more things break or spill or clutter. That is beauty too.
K.
Every moment of drinking from it, is like a flower in bloom, a golden moment of pause. That is beauty.
When it breaks, the sun upon its shattered remains shall be beautiful. That is beauty.
When I sweep it up, it shall tinkle and clink, jagged and glass spearful. Like a precious poignant memory.
And the beauty of sweeping it up, an act I will do 1000 more times, in that exact spot, when 1000 more things break or spill or clutter. That is beauty too.
K.